So, the pathology report from my lumpectomy came back. It wasn’t the “No Evidence of Disease” (NED) verdict my oncologist was rooting for, but the findings were still pretty good. They found just an 8mm x 2mm piece of the larger lesion—they basically caught the last crumbs of the cancer party. The other lesion? Poof. Gone. And the best part? They got clear margins, meaning the cancer’s eviction notice is officially stamped and sealed. There’s no more cancer in there now!

They also took 15 lymph nodes, those bouncers of the immune system, for a little “investigation.” Not a single one had cancer, including the big, suspicious one they biopsied earlier. That one turned out to be all bark and no bite. My oncologist said she was“very pleased”—it was a really good response to the chemo. And the cherry on top? I wasn’t even finished with chemo yet when they saw these results. Talk about a plot twist.

I’ve been hanging out in this TNBC (triple-negative breast cancer) group online, reading stories from others. Some of them, especially the younger women, just break your heart. At 30, you’re not exactly lining up for annual mammograms, and by the time they find it, it’s often stage 3 or 4. Many of them have no reaction to the chemotherapy at all. It’s such a tragedy, and every week there’s another tribute to a “pink sister” lost too soon.

It’s sobering, really. But today, I’m holding onto the good news—the clear margins, the clean lymph nodes, the hard-fought progress. This battle isn’t over, but man, what a victory this round has been.

So, back I went to finish off the chemo gauntlet: Doxorubicin, affectionately nicknamed the Red Devil (because apparently, even cancer treatment needs a supervillain), and Cyclophosphamide, its slightly (emphasis on “slightly”) less intimidating sidekick. Three more treatments, every three weeks—because, you know, why stop at “just enough” when we can go all in?

Yesterday was the first of the final rounds, and they’ve deemed me sufficiently patched up from my little pneumothorax incident (read: collapsed lung, because I like to keep things exciting). For the first time since chemo turned my blood into a science experiment, my hemoglobin has made a comeback. It’s still “low normal,” but hey, it’s like winning a participation ribbon in the anemia Olympics—progress is progress.

The best part? The huffing and puffing after climbing a flight of stairs (or, let’s be real, standing up too fast) has finally eased up. My oxygen levels are mostly normal now, with the occasional dip just to keep me on my toes. But a few deep breaths, and voilà—I’m back in business. Honestly, I feel like a human balloon: a quick inflate and off I go.

It’s a strange thing to celebrate, but I’ll take it. One treatment down, two to go, and the finish line is finally in sight. The Red Devil may be fierce, but I’m fiercer. Bring it on.

I had my wonderful hubby by my side, as always, for chemo day. He’s my rock—albeit a multitasking one. This time, he brought his phone and was tapping away on an email, probably solving some work crisis or maybe just Googling “how to survive a chemo appointment with your wife without panicking.” Eventually, he put the phone down, looked at me, and gave me one of his trademark smiles, the kind that says, I’ve got you, even if I’m barely holding it together myself.

You know, I sometimes think this cancer business is harder on my loved ones than it is on me. Sure, I’m the one getting pumped full of chemo cocktails and taking naps like it’s a competitive sport, but they’re carrying the fear—the what-ifs. For my husband, it’s been a rollercoaster. At first, he was so emotional, like the tears-just-a-thought-away kind of emotional. Then came the anxiety, creeping in like an unwelcome houseguest. And really, can you blame him? The idea of losing his sidekick of 43 years must be his actual worst nightmare, even though I keep telling him I’m not going anywhere. (At least not without a fight, or maybe a sassy exit plan.)

Then there’s telling one of my daughters. Oh, how I hated that part. Knowing she’s already carrying the weight of her mother-in-law battling metastasized breast cancer again—it felt like piling more bricks on her load. Each of my kids is dealing with this in their own way. Some dive into distractions; others lean into their emotions. Some withdraw and don’t talk about it at all. It’s like watching a family variety show: we all have our own acts, but we’re performing under the same heavy curtain.

I remember the panic when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. My dad had died of cancer, and let me tell you, he set a pretty grim precedent. He refused treatment after his diagnosis at 63—decided to go out on his own terms, never told anyonehe had cancer, stubborn to the last. So, yeah, I had reason to panic when Mom’s diagnosis came around.

I was mad at her for skipping radiation, though. But she was 78, living alone in a senior’s apartment back in Ontario, and she didn’t want to face it alone. Meanwhile, I was in BC, worried sick and nagging her from across the country like a long-distance mother hen to come and live with us. After months of her brushing me off, I finally decided to play my trump card: my secret weapons—my 16-year-old twin daughters.

When we visited, those two worked their teenage magic. Within no time, they convinced Grandma to pack up her life and move across the country. I don’t know what they said, but it worked. She lived with us for 11 years, and they were some of the most precious, chaotic, and laughter-filled years we ever had.

She passed away from complications of a stroke, but that wasn’t the whole story. By the end, another spot had shown up on her breast, but it wasn’t the cancer that got her—it was the treatments. Tamoxifen, the supposed wonder drug, caused blood clots, one of which lodged in her leg and sidelined her busy schedule. Women who take this drug have an 82% increased chance of strokes and transient ischemic stroke. Then came the TIAs, mini-strokes that the doctor suspected played a role in her dementia. It’s cruel, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s not the disease itself but the cure that takes more than it gives.

I still remember her 88th birthday, just a year before she passed. She was such a riot, laughing at our jokes, making us laugh, and enjoying every minute of the family chaos that was her birthday party. Even in the hardest moments, she was a joy to be around. I miss her every single day. Her photo is the wallpaper on my phone, and whenever people tell me I’m like her, I feel this quiet pride they don’t even realize they’re giving me. What a compliment. What a woman. What a life.

Two days post-chemo, and here I am, back on the steroids. And like some kind of medical miracle, my arthritis pain has done a full Houdini—poof, gone! After being off chemo for a couple of months to recover from surgery, the arthritis had returned with a vengeance, like it had been waiting for its cue. My joints and tendons felt like they were in a vice grip courtesy of an angry giant. But one dose of chemo and steroids later, and I’m practically doing all the things with my hands - an pain free at that.

Of course, there’s always a trade-off. The pain may be gone, but it’s been replaced by nausea, mouth sores, fatigue, and the infamous chemo brain. And let’s not forget the ever-present possibility that the little fuzz of hair I’d managed to regrow might decide to jump ship again. Honestly, I’m holding out hope, but I won’t be surprised if I’m back to looking like a freshly polished cue ball.

Speaking of chemo brain, it hit me—ironically after chemo brain hit me—why it happens. Chemotherapy is like a wrecking ball: it smashes cancer cells to bits but also takes out some innocent bystanders, like my perfectly healthy brain cells. That weekly blood test that lights up like a Christmas tree with red flags? Yeah, that’s the chemo doing its collateral damage.

So when I say I feel like I’m brain-damaged, it’s not just a joke or a figure of speech—it’s a scientifically backed reality. Chemo is literally shrinking my brain cells. At this point, if I forget what day it is or where I left my phone, I’m just going to blame it on the science.

Even though it’s only a couple of months until my hair starts growing back for good, I decided I needed a new hat. Sure, I bought a wig, but I can’t stand wearing it—it’s like having a clingy, itchy pet on my head. So, chemo caps it is! They’re warm, comfy, colorful, and, most importantly, don’t make me feel like I’m trying to pass as someone I’m not.

I picked out a pattern called Thermal Beehive by Annie Hamilton for my next cap. It’s got texture and a bit of dimension, so it doesn’t look like your average flat, boring chemo hat. Plus, I figured if I’m going to be bald for a bit longer, I might as well accessorize with style.

For those who know me, knitting is basically my superpower. I’ve been wielding needles since I was about seven years old when I learned to knit for my Brownie needlework badge. My Aunt Lily—who was my mom’s best friend and practically a second mom to me—taught me. Mom, a crochet queen herself, handed off the knitting duties because while she understood the mechanics, she wasn’t exactly passionate about it. Aunt Lily, on the other hand, got me hooked.

I started small—Barbie clothes, of course, because Barbie needed her winter wardrobe. As I got older, I graduated to making clothes for myself. By the time my first babies were on the way, I was knitting intricate lace shawls. These days, there’s not much I can’t knit, although the arthritis and degeneration in my hands have slowed me down. Let’s just say my hands don’t always agree with my ambitious knitting plans.

Still, nothing stops me from picking up the needles when I have a project in mind—like this hat. After all, knitting isn’t just a skill; it’s my therapy, my creativity, and, sometimes, my best excuse for ignoring the world.

Twenty-two years ago, I decided to take my love of knitting and yarn hoarding—I mean, collecting—to the next level. I opened a little yarn shop called Once Upon a Sheep. It wasn’t just any shop, though; this was a non-profit venture designed to support The Salvation Army in my town. We’re entirely volunteer-run, which means a whole bunch of people share my passion for fibres and the joy of enabling others to share it too.

One of my favourite duties as a parts of the team running the shop is ordering the yarns. Honestly, it’s like Christmas morning every time a new shipment arrives. I get to revel in the glorious colours, textures, and possibilities. The downside? I’m allergic to sheep wool. Yes, you read that right—the woman who opened a shop named Once Upon a Sheep can’t touch the stuff without sneezing up a storm.

But fear not, I’ve found ways around this little inconvenience. There’s a whole world of fabulous fibres out there—cotton, acrylic, alpaca, llama, mohair, and the pièce de résistance: CASHMERE! Oh, cashmere. It’s the royalty of yarn, and I treat it accordingly. The cream-coloured lace scarf you see in the photo above? That’s 100% cashmere, and let me tell you, it’s so soft it practically purrs when you touch it.

So yes, I may be allergic to sheep, but that hasn’t stopped me from building a woolly little community. I get to immerse myself in the textures and colours I love, share that joy with others, and help my community all at the same time. Not bad for a lifelong yarn addict!

Sometimes, a little distraction is just what the doctor ordered. But no matter how much Netflix you binge or how many cute cat videos you watch, the reality still looms: you’re battling an insidious enemy. And it’s scary. Every time I check in on the TNBC group on Facebook, there’s someone asking, “I’m scared. How do I deal with this?”

What can you even say to that? “Don’t be scared” feels about as helpful as telling someone with a broken leg to “just walk it off.” It’s trite, condescending, and ignores the reality of the situation. The truth is, it is scary.

And then there’s the delicate matter of offering comfort. For me, saying, “I’ll pray for you” feels natural—it’s what I do. But I know not everyone shares my faith, and if they don’t, what solace could they possibly take in that? I’ve noticed, though, that many of the women who do believe in God seem to have a brighter outlook. Their faith holds them together, like a glue that doesn’t crack under pressure.

Turns out, there’s some science behind this. A 2016 study found that daily spiritual practices correlated with more self-assurance and less fear of cancer coming back. And a 2024 meta-analysis showed that people with faith often reported a better quality of life, with varying impacts on their outcomes. It’s not magic, but it is meaningful.

For me, I’m grateful for my faith in God. I’m glad I have a higher power to turn to when the fear creeps in. When I think about the example of Jesus—his kindness, his resilience—and do my best to follow it, I find myself feeling calmer, more at peace, and more capable of navigating the hard stuff.

And let’s be real: believing in God doesn’t mean life suddenly gets easy. Faith isn’t a magic wand; it’s a source of strength and support. Hard times still come, but faith gives me something steady to lean on when they do. For that, I’m endlessly grateful.

Right now, I’m really missing the community of believers. Just as my immune system started getting back on its feet, I got thrown back into chemo. It’s like taking two steps forward and then being told, “Nope, back to the start.” I did manage to sneak out to the annual leaders’ retreat with The Salvation Army. The meeting rooms were gloriously huge and airy, so no need to play bumper shoulders with anyone. It felt like a small victory in the battle of staying germ-free.

Church, on the other hand, is a whole different story. The lobby is like the social epicenter, but it’s way too small for all the coffee-drinking, hand-shaking, hug-sharing action that goes on. And let’s be honest, people don’t exactly check their sniffles at the door. I can’t afford to risk it with my immune system still in low-power mode, so church is off the table for now. I do get out, but only where I can maintain my personal space bubble and avoid crowds like a pro.

In the meantime, I rely on my online community. My Friends in Prayer Messenger group has been an absolute lifeline, keeping me tethered to a sense of belonging. Messages, calls from friends, and random acts of love—like a good friend dropping off a devotional book last week—remind me that I’m not alone. And let’s not underestimate the power of a well-timed funny cat video. Honestly, those might just be doing as much for my recovery as the chemo.

Between all that and the music I stream on my iPhone and iPad, I’ve found little ways to stay connected, even while keeping my distance. It’s not quite the same as gathering with everyone in person, but it’s enough to keep my spirits buoyed—and that’s no small thing.

Prayer helps and this is the kind of prayer I often turn to.

God, even in the middle of all this chaos, I find myself reaching for something solid, something unshakeable. You, God, are that something. You’re my steady ground when everything else feels like quicksand. Even when the road ahead is foggy and I can’t see where I’m going, I know You’re there—constant, faithful, unchanging. Thank You for the strength You give, even when I feel like I’ve run out. Thank You for showing up, for being present, for holding me up when I don’t think I can take another step. And thank You for the flickers of hope that sneak in, reminding me there’s still light, even in the darkest moments. Help me to keep trusting You, even when it’s hard. And somehow, through all of this, let something good, something beautiful, shine through. Because if anyone can pull something amazing out of a mess, it’s You.

I’ve got plenty to praise God for these days. For starters, the cancer is gone—gone! The chemo, immunotherapy, and radiation are now like the ultimate cleanup crew, making sure not a single stray cell dares to sneak back in. It’s like a full-on eviction notice with extra locks on the doors for good measure.

But here’s the thing: praising God isn’t just reserved for the good days when the news is great and everything feels like a win. It’s also for the days when I don’t particularly feel like it—because let’s be real, there are those days too. Even then, I know it’s important. It’s a way of shifting the focus off the hard stuff and back onto the bigger picture.

This fun worship song popped up just when I needed it most, like it was tailor-made for my mood. It’s upbeat, uplifting, and a reminder that even in the middle of all this, there’s still joy to be found. So hit play, turn up the volume, and enjoy—I hope it lifts your spirits like it did mine!

My friends, thank you so much for taking this rollercoaster of a journey with me. Seriously, keep those funny cat videos coming—they’re like tiny doses of therapy, and they make me laugh even on the tough days. Your prayers for healing and recovery, your good vibes, your mystical healing energy (sent through airwaves or cyberspace, however that works)—I’ll take every last bit of it. If you’re sending it, I’m catching it.

And to my friends who aren’t the praying type, I feel your love and support just as much. Your positive thoughts, virtual hugs, and endless kindness are like sunshine breaking through the clouds.

You’re all so special to me, and your support means more than I can say. You’re my team, my cheerleaders, my lifeline—and I’m so grateful for each and every one of you.

Grace and blessings (and a sprinkle of laughter),

Kathie

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